The Gallery Cackles
by Emerial
Summary: [Collection of oneshots] A girl's heart is broken by a man she doesn't even know, a child craves for friends at the expense of her sanity, and a coward forever on the run from his feelings. The Gallery cackles in amusement as it watches. Will it ever shut up, you ask? Well, not when there's still so much more to see.
1. Dream

**Author's Note:**

The Gallery Cackles - because Emerial realizes the best way to get rid of plot bunnies is through noncommittal, short little stories.

What's gonna happen: (not) a lot! This will be updated spontaneously. Feel free to suggest themes/ideas through PMs or twitter (link in my profile page). I'll also be posting update notices on twitter for anyone who doesn't have an ffnet account.

What's not gonna happen: plot bunnies dying from lack of attention.

What I hope will happen: people enjoying any of the stories. P̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴e̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴o̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴p̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴l̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴e̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴ ̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴p̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴r̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴a̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴i̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴s̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴i̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴n̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴g̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴ ̴̵̶̷̸̸̷̶̵̴m̴̵̶̷̸e. People telling me where I've erred.

Now let's start!

* * *

 **Dream**

 _Garry lied. But did he really?_

—

The little girl woke with a start, her eyes darting around the dark bedroom illuminated by one lone crescent light.

Heart thumping, skin damp and breaths ragged, she forced down a dry swallow as she continued to search her surroundings for something unknown.

The darkness catered eerie silence and the moonlight fed ubiquitous shadows. Her thin camisole sticking to her back, she dismayed at the thought of closing her eyes and leaving herself vulnerable to what wicked presence may be lurking about. A whimper rattled the back of her throat, bringing hot, unwanted tears to her eyes.

 _Again…that dream…_

The young man had towered over her, teeth clenching tight behind trembling lips. His hands cupped her face, strong fingers wiping away her stagnant tears as he fought to hold in his own. Even with pain pulling his facial muscles taut and even as sweat beads upon his knitted forehead, he'd managed to give her a smile.

" _If you need me…I'll come running…"_

A nightmare was what it was.

Ib rolled onto her side and came to face with the man sharing the bed with her. He looked so relaxed, so serene, his beautiful face partly hidden by the downy pillow he'd burrowed into. His wavy hair was unruly in his sleep, shining a mystical blue under the ephemeral light. The moon cast fleeting shades of long lashes onto his alabaster cheek and chiseled his straight nose more prominent.

She listened to the sound of his breathing, intrigued by every rise of fall of his bony shoulder. Her palm gingerly splayed over his chest, and through his worn tank top she felt his calming beats. Unknowingly, her own had matched with them.

The lulling thumps wrapped her in assurance, and it was almost as if her hand had a mind of its own as she reached up to touch his parted lips. Mildly dry, but soft all the same. The rhythm of his breaths could be felt on her small fingers, so warm and precious.

It was disrupted when he stirred.

His eyes fluttered open and a cerulean gaze drown her in its wake. She did not move her hand. They held each other's gaze for one long moment. Then came the next best thing. He smiled an endearing smirk as a large hand knitted with hers and brought it against his mouth. His affection flattered, but at the same time offended her.

"Liar."

His gesture stumped, he regarded her with alert eyes. "Hmm, why ever so?" his voice rung a semblance with a female's, but still held a low note of timbre.

The playful tone struck something within her, and a knot formed inside her throat. Against her will, searing hot tears formed anew, and she made no attempt to hide them.

His eyes widened at this, and he clambered up to his knees to move over her. He sibilated shushing sounds, his thumbs stroked under her eyes over and over in an attempt to dry them. His gentleness only made it hurt worse. He looked helpless at her unending tears, his expression almost mirroring hers. His strong arms slid behind her back and gathered her up against him.

Ib curled up in his firm embrace, relishing in the scent of smoke and cologne as his hand traced the length of her spine. "Liar." She took in a shuddering breath and buried her face into his chest, clinging to his shirt. He only held her tighter, not caring that she was dirtying his clothes with tears and snot.

"Liar," her voice broke under the weight of her heartache. "I need you… Why aren't you here?"

The hand on her back stilled.

"But Ib—" His fingers combed her hair. "Do you really need me?"

"I do."

"Then why do you never call for me?"

Her eyes were wide. She nudged away from him, and he complied.

His smile was so kind, his eyes were so gentle. She ventured to touch him, her fingers tiny along his jaw.

"Call my name, Ib, and I'll come."

She parted her lips. She sucked in a breath. She held his face. Tears rained down her cheeks and this time he did nothing to stop them. The syllables were there. His name was right on the tip of her tongue, ready to roll off, yet no force on this plane was enough to give it that final push she needed. Why, why, why, why? She was so close. He was so close.

Just a little more. Just a little bit more.

"It's okay. That's enough for tonight," he soothed, his large hand covering her eyes. "Time to wake up now, Ib."

.

.

.

.

The little girl woke with tears in her rubicund eyes.

 _Again…why?_

She pushed the comforter away and sat up, wiping her face.

She could never understand the reason for this emptiness inside of her.


	2. Somewhere We Belong

**Somewhere We Belong**

 _Some lovers elope; some suicide hand in hand. They have another option._

—

Under the clear blue sky dashed with but a few playful strokes of white cotton, a cool breeze carelessly combed through the treetops, cajoling the afternoon sunlight to dance on shadowy grass. Dry leaves were pulled from their branches and into the open air, swaying and scattering across the stretch of green as if alive.

In an inconspicuous corner of a well-frequented park, he crossed his long legs and leaned into the hard bench to try and make his sore behind comfortable, eyes trained on the yellowing pages of the book in his hands.

Three o'clock, his watch indicated.

An anxious thrumming roiled in his chest. He brushed away a leaf caught between his unruly dark locks and reached for the smoothie beside him, taking a sip through the fat straw. The ice had melted, making his drink a diluted, unpalatable mush, but he hardly noticed the degrading flavor and drank another mouthful.

As he chewed on the red straw with his front teeth, birds were chirping in a riot somewhere among the lush foliage over his head. Flapping of wings. Rustling of branches. Some kid's energetic shout could be heard, drowning out his parents' concerned hollers.

"Garry."

A soft voice that pushed all other sounds into the background.

He lowered the book down onto his lap and smiled at the young girl walking up to him.

The dark-green uniform of her prestigious academy was something he'd gotten used to seeing her in. She was small for her age, much to her chagrin, her long brown hair done up with a clamp in an effort to look more mature. But it was a poor one, for her round innocent eyes and rosy cheeks gave her tender years away.

Long ago, he would have gotten up to hug this little girl.

"How did the presentation go?" He put his book away and moved his cup so that she could sit next to him.

"Okay," she sighed. "Not satisfactory, but was still an A."

Ah, always so critical of herself.

He ruffled her head, messing up her hairdo on purpose. "Atta girl."

"Garry!" Red eyes protested in place of her calm visage.

He chuckled and sat back to watch her attempt to salvage the vandalism. Soon, a smooth stream of mahogany was released from the crystal brown clamp, pouring generously down her shoulders and swaying along the length of her back. It framed her chiseled profile.

As expected…

Nipping the hair clamp from her fingers in one swift motion, he pocketed the accessory with a smirk. "Confiscated." And before she could voice her objection, he ran a hand down the side of her face, fingers ever so fleetingly brushing her straight locks. "You're beautiful, Ib."

As he withdrew his hand, she touched the place where his caress had been and lowered her eyes to the ground. His smile widened at the sight of her indifferent face heating up.

Sitting back in his seat, however, his mirth faded. He'd made the mistake of scanning their surroundings, some of which he'd rather not see.

People were coming and going.

A couple walked hand in hand on their date. A single-child family enjoying their occasional outing.

People were lingering.

The laidback old women feeding pigeons on the cobblestone road. A group of students in dark-green uniforms sat by the edge of the lake.

People were talking.

Furtive glances.

Thinly veiled disapproval.

Whispering.

Society was really nosy.

Or maybe he had merely become too sensitive.

He got up to throw his smoothie away, and, when he came back, sat a little farther away from her, ignoring her dissatisfied frown. They proceeded to stay in silence. She was rarely the conversation starter, and he was reluctant to speak. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched her fight to keep her thick fall of hair at bay in the face of a powerful gust.

"Don't you have class right now?" she asked suddenly.

"Ah… I quit this morning," he simpered, and, at her alarmed look, added, "I haven't the knacks for designing after all. I don't want to keep dumping my old man's money down the drain."

The fourteen-year-old appeared perplexed, trying to think of an appropriate response to his predicament. He could see her biting back the offer to use her family's money, as she'd been taught from a very early stage of their relationship it wasn't 'appropriate.' This made him feel even more pathetic.

He kept a wry scowl off his face and knitted his hands together, blunt nails digging into callous knuckles. The sooner he got this over with… "And that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm thinking about moving back home to help with the business."

"What? No! What about us—" She seemed to realize something, and a rare spark of anger ignited across her expression. "Is this because Ma and Pa met with you the other day?"

"They just want the best for you, Ib. They're right."

He looked ahead, dreading her hurt face. Her parents hadn't had a problem with him before, treating her attachment to him as a childish crush that would fade with time. But as time passed, it was growing to be increasingly apparent that wasn't the case. And the final straw was probably how he didn't even hide his affection for their daughter.

He'd tried. He worked hard to get a degree. He'd stopped smoking, stopped dyeing his hair and wore more sensible clothes. He'd wanted to be someone befitting her, but it wasn't enough for them to accept him.

At first, it was the dwindling visits to his apartment. Then the evening curfews to keep them from hanging out too late. Now, he wasn't even allowed to see her anymore.

As he heaved a sigh, she said, "I don't care. I'll come with you."

He looked at her, seeing the determination in her eyes. To be young and naïve. Although, he wouldn't deny feeling flattered by her devotion to him, and that a childish, irrational part of him nearly jumped at the suggestion. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I care, Ib. Anywhere we go, people are still gonna judge. And I don't think I can look after you as well as I'd like. We'll both be miserable."

"So you assume we won't be if apart?"

"I was hoping it'll only be me that'll be hurting."

Her red hot glare told him he was looking down on her feelings, and he conceded with a shameful shrug, head sinking between bony shoulders. Silence draped over them once more, like a stuffy blanket that he wished for nothing more than to kick off. The rims of his eyes were starting to burn. He'd been afraid this would happen. He was really doing this, saying goodbye to her. The thought of never seeing her again sowed fear and anger deep in the pit of his stomach, while the frustration at his powerlessness tightened his throat.

"Is there…" she began after an eternity, and he realized the girl had already snuggled up by his side. "Is there no other way?" With her legs gathered to her chest, she looked so vulnerable under the sunlight filtering through the branch spread.

He didn't answer. Instead, he wrapped his arm around her small frame and found himself musing.

Had he been wrong to be so open about his feelings for her and come off as a threat in her parents' eyes? He'd honestly thought the Lowells would come through for them. Or at least, for her. Cradle-robbing was probably just too hard to get past, and he'd been too full of it, thinking that their circumstances were special.

But weren't they special? Having fought for their lives and taken away another's together? Having withstood traumas and nightmares by each other's side? Alas, no one would ever understand. The death grip she'd once had around his waist had been strangely comforting. And though she remained silent, he'd felt her erratic heartbeats through her back. The swift moment of tranquility they'd spent under the sun that smelled of beef fat. Running for his life and being on his toes hadn't left time for thinking. It really was nice not having to think.

He looked at his wrist before giving her a light squeeze. "Wanna go grab a bite?"

She grabbed his arm to check the time and shook her head. "I have to go soon." The sorrow she tried to keep hidden broke his heart.

"I see…"

"… Isn't there a place where no one will judge us somewhere?"

He didn't trust himself to speak, lowering his gaze. Her shoulders sagged, and she got to her feet. "This isn't over okay, Garry? We'll talk again later." She slid her fingers into his jacket and took back the hair clamp. It was supposed to be a keepsake.

As he watched her tread through the grass towards the empty street, her words played on repeat in his head.

And he remembered. He remembered opening his eyes to find the stabbing pain gone and his head cradled in her worried embrace. He remembered watching over her sleeping form, feather-light in his lap, curled up under his ragged coat. He remembered the intimacy they'd shared with trembling abandon in a hideout of dusty bookshelves.

He looked down at his worn wristwatch.

" _Huh…the hands' stopped. Is it dead?"_ he'd thought to himself in one moment of reprieve.

.

"Ib!"

She turned around in surprise as he grabbed her by the elbow. Breathing heavily, he looked into her eyes and saw his own uncertainty reflected in them. He was being weak and stupid, but he'd always been that way. The question was how far she was willing to tolerate the failure of a man that was he.

The wind picked up again, plastering her hair to her cheek, but she made no movement to tuck it behind her ear. She was waiting patiently, as if somehow sensing the outlandishness of the proposal about to roll of his tongue.

He swallowed, tightening the hold on her arm.

"There is a place."

* * *

"Said all your goodbyes?"

"I don't have that many. Just Ma and Pa. I should be asking you."

"You'd think," he chuckled and decided to ignore the dark smears underneath her bloodshot eyes she tried to cover with side-swept bangs.

With her hands in his, he led her through the busy streets towards downtown.

People were walking. People were talking.

Furtive glances, thinly veiled disapproval and whispering.

Society was really nosy.

But he didn't care.

He ran a hand through wind-tousled mauve locks, and she pushed long, seamless fall over her shoulder. His heart rattled between his ribcage. As they arrived through the black metal gate, he felt her hesitation. He smiled at her and gave a gentle tug.

She squeezed his hand.

 _To a place where no one will judge them._

They went up deceptive white steps, and passed impassive figures. His heart was now still, at peace, reassured by the warmth of her soft palm. Browsing the spontaneous but purposeful brushes of the famed artist, they waited for it to become dark.

 _To a place where there was no one to judge them._

And as they sank into the deep abyss, the walls dripped an oily blue.

 **WELCOME BACK**


	3. The Name of The Painting

**Author's Rant:** Lemme just say a quick thank you for people who've been reading these quickies. And to the Guest who's commented on the last chapter, this chapter was based on your prompt! Enjoy.

* * *

 ** _ _ _？？？___**

 _Mary can dream._

–

 _mY, the cHild has cHOsen. Is tHIs okay i WONDEr?_

 _oh WELL, theRe are theSe DOlLs at hER biddiNG…_

* * *

One of the chandeliers affixed overhead flickered with an audible _tink_ in the pin-drop silence, and the shadows twitched with a lifelike quality along the purple walls, granting menace upon the dormant artworks. Nervous fingers ran through wavy lavender, and wary red peeked around the space.

The two mismatch figures continued to traverse the dim hallway that seemed to stretch on forever into the bottomless maw of darkness. She was a small child shy of ten years. He was a tall man of bony handsomeness. Their hands, one large and angular, and the other tiny and fragile, fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Mary tackled her companions from behind and demanded their attention.

"Geez, what is it now, Mary?" Garry gave her a helpless look while Ib showed but a ghost of a smile.

"That's because Garry and Ib were ignoring me," she pouted in a stubborn display. Before her friends could give a response, not that she counted on taciturn Ib to say anything, Mary squeezed herself in between the two and took their hands in hers. "Let's keep going okay? Like this."

Blue met red.

They both smiled at her.

And just like that, hand in hand, the trio turned around the corner.

Mary was happy, laughing together with these two. Ib carried a rain-drop purity that glimmered even in the smearing grasp of this world, and Garry…well, he was an interesting idiot that more than often irritated her. To sum it up, she liked both of them. And it made her so very happy that they also loved her.

A spine-chilling click resounded in the back of her head, clouding her mind.

"̷M̷a̷r̷y̷,̷ ̷p̷l̷e̷a̷s̷e̷ ̷l̷e̷t̷ ̷g̷o̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̷h̷i̷m̷.̷"̷ ̷S̷h̷a̷k̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷s̷m̷a̷l̷l̷ ̷h̷a̷n̷d̷s̷ ̷h̷e̷l̷d̷ ̷u̷p̷ ̷a̷ ̷d̷a̷n̷c̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷t̷o̷n̷g̷u̷e̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̷f̷l̷a̷m̷e̷.̷ ̷T̷h̷a̷t̷ ̷v̷e̷r̷y̷ ̷f̷l̷a̷m̷e̷ ̷r̷e̷f̷l̷e̷c̷t̷e̷d̷ ̷i̷t̷s̷e̷l̷f̷ ̷o̷n̷ ̷h̷e̷r̷ ̷w̷i̷d̷e̷,̷ ̷t̷e̷r̷r̷i̷f̷i̷e̷d̷ ̷p̷u̷p̷i̷l̷s̷ ̷a̷s̷ ̷s̷h̷e̷ ̷t̷o̷r̷e̷ ̷h̷e̷r̷ ̷a̷t̷t̷e̷n̷t̷i̷o̷n̷ ̷a̷w̷a̷y̷ ̷f̷r̷o̷m̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷m̷a̷n̷.̷

I̷t̷ ̷w̷a̷s̷ ̷l̷i̷c̷k̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷t̷o̷o̷ ̷c̷l̷o̷s̷e̷ ̷t̷o̷ ̷h̷e̷r̷ ̷m̷a̷r̷g̷i̷n̷s̷ ̷f̷o̷r̷ ̷c̷o̷m̷f̷o̷r̷t̷.̷ ̷H̷e̷r̷ ̷e̷y̷e̷s̷ ̷s̷a̷w̷ ̷n̷o̷t̷h̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷b̷u̷t̷ ̷t̷h̷a̷t̷ ̷b̷r̷i̷g̷h̷t̷ ̷l̷i̷g̷h̷t̷.̷ ̷S̷h̷e̷ ̷c̷o̷u̷l̷d̷n̷'̷t̷ ̷l̷o̷o̷k̷ ̷a̷w̷a̷y̷.̷ ̷T̷h̷e̷ ̷s̷e̷a̷r̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷h̷e̷a̷t̷ ̷w̷a̷s̷ ̷w̷a̷f̷t̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷t̷o̷o̷ ̷c̷l̷o̷s̷e̷,̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷s̷e̷n̷s̷a̷t̷i̷o̷n̷ ̷c̷h̷i̷l̷l̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷h̷e̷r̷ ̷t̷o̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷v̷e̷r̷y̷ ̷c̷o̷r̷e̷.̷

A̷n̷d̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷n̷…̷t̷h̷e̷r̷e̷ ̷w̷a̷s̷ ̷d̷a̷r̷k̷n̷e̷s̷s̷.̷

Where they were walking, the walls had gone from the brooding violet to a reassuring brown. Both of her hands were still securely entwined with her friends as they mused over some confusing pieces by her father. Ib was curious and Garry was helpful; they kept slowing down for vocabulary lessons and idle chatter, and Mary was growing restless.

"Say, you two…we are going to get out of here, right?"

They looked at one another, then back to her; smiles were blooming on their faces. Garry's large hand ruffled her head as she felt Ib's hold tighten.

"Of course, we're gonna find a way out…eventually," the man added with a dispirited chuckle, but he quickly recovered his jolly attitude. "Don't worry you pretty little head. I'll see to it."

The blonde grew quiet and kept her gaze down.

And they moved along.

Her friends must have noticed her sullen mood, because Garry kept striking up conversations with her; and Ib called her name every once in a while to give her a faint smile. They were so kind to her. Why were they being so kind? Don't think she didn't notice Ib's inattentive daze when absorbed in watching Garry. Don't think she didn't notice Garry's blatant change in tone when talking to Ib instead of her. Don't think she didn't notice the way their eyes always met in some private communication she wasn't allowed to be a part of. She knew they'd rather be holding each other's hand than hers. She knew they enjoyed talking to one another, and her existence was an uninvited, unwelcome third wheel they'd rather not have to deal with.

But she ignored all these things…

"Mary."

Her line of thought shattered, she looked up to see her friends' concerned faces.

"You okay? Should we take a rest?" Garry was bending down to her level, head in an effeminate tilt.

"Yeah. Let's…" Mary tried to mask her listlessness. The girl darted her eyes around and spotted a lonely vase nestled in the darkness of a corner afar. "Look, there's a vase! I'll go water your roses." She showed them open palms.

Again, Garry and Ib had their secretive conversation with mere looks.

"Sure thing." An ethereal blue rose emerged from his ragged coat, and he placed it into her grasp. "Thanks, Mary."

"Here." Ib quietly followed suit with her rose of precious red.

Mary grinned at the two before taking off.

Because the drawer was a bit taller than usual, she had to tiptoe in order to place the roses inside the vase. Upon completing the tiny feat, she had her hands on her hips with pride and stood back to watch as the roses become even more vibrant than they had been before. Mary quickly recovered them and was about to head back to her friends when a giggle floated to her ears, causing her to freeze in her track.

Standing in front of the only drawing in the hallway, Garry and Ib were talking, surrounded by a comfortable atmosphere. One that didn't exist in her presence.

"̷I̷'̷m̷ ̷s̷o̷r̷r̷y̷,̷ ̷M̷a̷r̷y̷.̷"̷

"̷G̷o̷o̷d̷b̷y̷e̷.̷"̷

Mary watched as they continued to chat away as if she wasn't there.

To be fair, she _wasn't_ there.

To be unfair, she blamed them anyway.

Mary didn't know why she kept on deluding herself.

One was lonely.

Two meant safety.

And three can't get out.

This wasn't her story. It never was. This was Ib's, and the girl had already chosen. A red story.

Ah…Mary was seeing red.

Their flimsy lives in her hands, she crushed both petals and stem. Beautiful roses have thorn, they say; but she wasn't human. Even as the prickles sank into her pseudo flesh, neither blood nor pain erupted. Mary looked up to the still oblivious couple, feeling something incredibly funny clawing its way up her chest. It bubbled from her mouth in the form of a single wheezing noise and made her lips stretch. She let the crumpled blooms fall to the marble floor and reached down into her stocking.

Teeth gritted, she took a death grip upon the wooden handle and charged at the loquacious man's back with reckless abandon. Amidst the commotion of Ib's yell of his name, she could hear it. A wet, satisfying crunch as she twisted the palette knife into his lanky, overgrown body. Her grin grew wide. The warmth of his life came pouring out, dampening his ragged coat, dripping off her white knuckles.

.

As the gurgling noises in his throat died down to nothing, the sound of her effort became delightfully apparent. _Crunch, crunch, crunch._ Garry was wetting the floor, and he was still as the dead.

Well, he _was_ dead. Silly Mary.

"Nighty night, Garry," she patted his head, smearing his lavender locks with the red paint on her hand, and wrenched her knife from his torso. It was about time she paid attention to her beloved.

"Ib~" she called, sweet as liquid honey. Mary climbed off of Garry's back to approach the girl who stood horrified just a few steps away. "Finally, it's just us two now."

Ib had hands over her mouth, and her red eyes were wide with fear, darting from Garry, to Mary, and back to Garry again.

"Really Ib, even now you're still looking to him?" Mary laughed and took bold strides towards her friend. With lightning speed, her free hand captured Ib by one frail arm. "Was what he had to say that interesting?"

"M-Mary…" Ib tried to pull away, but Mary shushed her with a loving caress on the cheek. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to do so with a sharp object in the same hand though. Ib was starting to tear up, and the glaze made her beautiful irises even more so. Mary loved her eyes that felt like they could see through everything—just not Mary's true nature.

"Well, it's only too bad. Dead men don't talk."

Rather than feeling guilty for making Ib cry, Mary experienced glee like she'd never felt before. If Garry was going to be the one to draw out laughter from stoic Ib, then she shall humbly take up the role to induce the precious girl's tears.

"Say, Ib. Garry is already gone so of course you'll pick me right?" Mary tightened her grip, causing the other girl to wince. "You'll stay with me, right? Together forever?"

.

"Y-yeah! Together forever." Ib smiled an ugly, forced smile, and Mary felt her own contorted into anger.

Liar!

 _Crunch,_ went the palette knife. And the rest was history.

.

.

.

Mary thrust her small hands deeper and deeper into the warmth of her beloved until she reached what she was looking for, fingers circling around the now idle chamber of life. Tears were spilling down her smudged cheeks, cleaning away what stain they could in their travel. Her head rested atop the red girl's soaked, open chest she let out a whimper.

And as the horror around her warped and reduced to fluffy white cotton, she wondered what she could ever do to make that girl's heart hers.

.

.

.

"Again," she ordered, empty eyes watched as mutilated blue were being dragged away by her loyal doll friends.

but-but…what does mary want? Scrawls bled from the dreary brown paint.

"Make them more realistic. Garry's not supposed to care about me. And Ib wouldn't have smiled so much! It was all wrong."

we've already done that and mary wasn't happy

"Do better, then." Mary wouldn't care if the dolls resented her. She just wanted to go back to that time with those two. The cowardly holder of the blue rose, the cruel holder of the red rose. Why had she been spared to suffer this emptiness? "I kept getting flashbacks. Do something about it."

mary knows strong emotions interfere with m

"I don't care! Go do it or go throw yourselves to TRASH!" And the little dolls scattered to go about their jobs.

Left alone, Mary finally looked over to the painting that "Garry" and "Ib" had seemed to be discussing. In a crescent bed leaning against the starry night sky, a tiny little girl snuggled under her cover, snoozing away without a care in the world. Mary remembered standing in front of this same painting with those two. She and Ib couldn't read the title, and Garry was being a smart-aleck about it.

Mary could feel the ruin slowly seeping in, settling down within her fabricated existence. The screams and cries inside her head grew docile as her raging memory was lulled to sleep by a gentle rocking. She took one final glance at the sleeping girl behind the glass before she closed her eyes and surrendered to the gallery.

* * *

 _And the name of the painting was…_


	4. Happy Ending

**Happy Ending**

Mary doesn't want a fairytale.

—

Ib loved fairytales. She used to read them with Mary when they were younger.

As the afternoon turned to evening and the stories came to an end, they would be lying on Ib's bed. Under the warm sunlight of dusk pouring through the large windows, Ib's mahogany fall was a lambent red, pooling around her lovely face.

They would discuss the laughably simple-minded plot, and Ib would speak in the quietest voice. The older girl never did talk much, so Mary was happy to listen whenever she did.

Ib loved fairytales.

Therefore, Mary also loved fairytales.

.

The seasons changed with restless haste and the years sped by, already they were entering high school. Growing up next to her dear Ib, Mary had learnt many things.

The dry math and boring literature.

Common sense and pain.

Compassion.

She'd learnt that the world was never as simple as a fairytale.

"Brochure, young lady?"

Mary looked up from her thought to the elderly man in his immaculate three-piece suit. Though time had colored his hair with salt and etched lines of crowfeet into the amiable crinkle of his eyes, his grey gaze were still shrewd behind the thick pair of glasses.

"As always, Bob," she gave him a smile and took the leaflet from the man's wrinkly fingers.

It was the key to being safe.

Mary went up the white marble steps, the hard soles of her boots tapping softly, but vividly in the silence of the gallery. Over the years, the number of visitors coming to see her 'father's' world had dwindled to a mere speck of the former crowd. Times changed, and people moved on so quickly.

But not Ib.

Her sister still remained the fairytale loving girl who read Mary stories and hugged Mary to sleep. Ib especially was fixated with the story of the _Sleeping Beauty_. There was something so very precious about the notion of the princess waking up even after such a long time, Ib had confessed with a rare smile and faraway gaze.

 _Waking up…huh?_

After a recent case of theft, the museum had moved some of the paintings around. Wherever it was, Mary hoped that black cat would teach the thieves a lesson. Thank god, her 'big sister' wasn't taken. She stopped by the woman in red and said hello before moving on to the end of the hallway.

Coming up to the lone portrait resting majestically on the white wall, Mary was tackled by a dizzying turmoil as she took in the features of the man's sleeping face, depicted in the artful brushes of her 'father.' On the one hand, she was glad he was still here. On the other part… Oh why, why, why couldn't he have been the stolen painting?

"Hello, Garry," in a whisper she said, keeping her distance. Every time, he remained motionless; but every time she still felt as though those limp arms would shoot straight out to drag her back in if given the chance. Underneath the fabric of that ragged, unflattering coat were muscles capable of inhuman strength and she shuddered at the thought of harm unto her fragile human body.

In the recent years, she had taken to visiting the man. The more she grew, the more what had happened tore at her insides. She knew there was no making up for his sacrifice, but when she came to him, almost ritualistically, it eased her conscience. So that she may live the next few weeks with a sound mind.

This time, however, she felt urgency to see him. To see that he still slept, and the status quo was maintained.

"Ib has been a bit distant lately, Garry," she played with the belt of her one piece and shuffled her feet. "You thought she was detached before, you should see her now. She just shuts off—I wonder if it's just the senior year or if it's…"

Mary pressed her lips into a light pout, the leaflet in her hand bent and twisted. The gallery rarely ever let its victims go, and when it did, the survivor's memory would be wiped. What was intended as cruelty and selfishness had turned out to be kindness. She thought it was best Ib didn't remember this man. If the soulless stare as the little girl had stood before he whose rose had wilted was any indication, Mary was sure Ib wouldn't be able to live with the memory…or Mary.

Mary was a selfish, selfish girl.

Mary would love to give Ib a happy ending like in the story, but not at the price it cost. She feared the return of what had been forgotten.

Wasn't it great that real life made a mockery of fairytales?

The princess should just keep on sleeping, undisturbed by time and pain, so that all the princes wouldn't have to lose their lives to the forest of thorns, and the foolish wisewoman would be allowed a second chance. Everyone would be happy.

Tears prickled the corner of her eyes as her vision glazed over, blurring the name of the painting. She bowed deeply in front of him. "I'm sorry, Garry. I want to live…together with her."

"Please…"

When she deemed it was enough a wait for a permission that would never come, Mary lifted her head and looked at his impassive form. The man still leant no slouchier in the cradle of vines and roses, and his hair still that odd flamboyant mess. But she dared think his expression was softer, and that he understood her plight. She dared think he had forgiven her and was encouraging her to live her life the way she wanted to.

It was going to be fine, he seemed to say.

.

.

.

.

.

The young girl stepped out from behind the large contorted sculpture, pulling off her hood that had concealed a straight fall of brown as she watched the retreating figure of her dear sibling. Her heart was hammering inside her chest, aching for reasons unknown.

Why? The words that had been whispered in the dead of sound echoed in a manic cacophony.

Something was telling her she shouldn't, shouting at her. But slowly, she came up to the portrait whom her sister had talked so animistically with.

The girl froze, stunned.

It was the calmest of blue, outlandish and impossible.

And it gripped at her chest with a violent crush.

"Gar…ry?"

* * *

 **Author's Rant:** Just a quick thank you to the guest who enjoyed the last story. :3


	5. Playing with Fire

**Author's Rant:** Thank you for reading all my dear readers. You guys are the reason I can keep writing.

Guesty-san, my thanks are especially for you. Your kind words made my day. Your idea is most enticing, gifting me with another plot bunny. I will see that she is fed and groomed.

Cataquack Warrior, this is based on your prompt!

* * *

 **Playing with Fire**

Just because it's water doesn't mean you can't get burnt.

—

If God really made the world in seven days, it was because he used a cookie cutter.

People were all the same. Animals were all the same. Every day was a boring repetition, every song a noisy drone, and every meal as tasteless as the last.

 _A Place Out of Reach_

Ma promised her the world was warm and colorful. Ib must not be living in that world. She was outside looking in, peering through dirty stained glass that blurred everything into black and white.

So bland. So pointless. Those kids in her class always stuck together every recess bell. What were they laughing about? What were they crying about?

Ib touched her face in one moment of wonder.

Oh, who cares. She should keep reading this book to fix that C she'd been getting.

.

"Did you remember everything, Ib?"

"Oh! Do you have your handkerchief? You know, the one you got for your birthday?"

Ib nodded, shimmying away from her Ma's excited demeanour, but that could only go so far, for both of her hands were held by her parents. The afternoon sky was a dreary grey as they led her through the gates.

 _Mayhem of Colors_

On a canvas of white were shapes and brushes displayed in the most spontaneous ways that did not at all adhere to the rules she had been taught thus far. Ib felt like walking towards those frames to study further.

"Hm? You want to go ahead? Really, Ib… Oh, all right."

So she took off on her own. Ma's voice was echoing from behind her, telling her Pa she was interested in the paintings.

'Interest?' So that was what it was. Not bad.

And Ib quickly learned that her 'interest' waned all too soon. This artist called Guertena, as talented as he'd been, there was a certain rule to that twist existing in all of his creations. Be it paintings or sculptures, all were singing about a man's tale that she did not care to know.

Boring.

The outlines of the cookie cutter were becoming clearer and clearer as she browsed. Just another lazy 'God.'

 _Fabricated World_

The enormous painting displayed itself with impulsive shades and bold imageries, bearing the foggiest resemblance to the pixelated world she saw every single day, sans the colors. Little did she know, the darkness following her admiration of the artwork was the spiraling stairs that led to…

 _Feeling_

She'd thought she had none, but this… This was new. The hard squeeze of her heart when the mannequins lunged at her. The smothering fear that iced her limbs as she heard the sound of a frame dragging across the carpet. As her heart hammered and her legs collapsed from exhaustion, an exhilarating affect spread through her body.

There was a time when she felt fatigue, and the thought of wanting Ma and Pa occurred to her as natural as breathing. Someone. Anyone was fine. For the first time, being alone was terrifying.

The blue rose that she picked up and nursed to health gave her a companion. A man? A woman? This person didn't fit into the cookie cutter. Such odd hair. What eccentric behavior. And a little bit of a smartass, but that was okay. For the first time, she didn't mind being with a stranger.

The red footsteps led her towards a friend. This child didn't fit into the cookie cutter either. A chatterbox. Why so insistent? Why so cheery? For the first time, someone hadn't given up on befriending her.

Ib traversed the gallery's whimsy. There was no end to the twists and turns. Then suddenly…

 _Separation_

A twinge of unease made it hard to walk away from the wall of steely vines. She was looking forward to seeing her companion again as she appeased her friend with superficial words.

Faced with her friend's erratic advances, was it gladness that she felt when her companion came for her? This person was Garry. The man who had taken care of her when her body had caved. The one who'd given her the lemon candy, and whose shaky smiles had been offered at strangely appropriate times.

And was it disappointment she felt as they hid among the tools and waited for her friend to leave? That child was Mary. The girl who had beamed at her without a trace of dishonesty.

Pain wrecked her body with every step as she leant onto Garry for support. The starry corridor seemed to stretch on. They should never have tried to go through the wall of vines.

 _Melancholy_

Standing before the pile of ash, she inhaled the burnt smell that had replaced Mary's crayon-y scent before Garry pulled her to his lanky frame in consolation. He misunderstood. She didn't care that much. Or perhaps he was the one that needed this. It couldn't be helped then. She let him rub circles into her back with one bleeding hand.

 _Fabricated World_

Funny how it actually felt like out here was the fabricated dimension instead. The insipid greeting by her parents after everything was displeasing. The uneventful days that unfolded before Ib left her feeling empty again.

Garry introduced her to macaron on their first get together. It was okay. They frequented a nearby café, and Ma and Pa were too happy that she finally 'took interest' in a relationship to care about the strange match.

"Schizoid?" Garry expressed his surprised over hot chocolate and macarons. "My, aren't you a bit young to be diagnosed with that?"

She shrugged.

"Well, I suppose it's not like I can't see that… I'm sorry there's nothing I can do." He took a sip of his drink, a distant look glazed over his eyes. "Hm, maybe you don't even enjoy these outings with me."

What did he mean? He was the one complaining about difficulty connecting with others after their experience in the gallery, so she was keeping him company.

At her puzzled look he apologized and told her to forget it, and they moved on.

He kept reminding her she could confide in him as though her memory was of a gold fish, so she did. She told him her intention that drained the colors from his face faster than the clock could tick twice.

The day was turning on its side as they walked, Garry objecting all the way to the gallery. Oh well, she liked to do things alone anyway. She left him at the entrance and jumped.

 _Abyss of the Deep_

There it was again. Her heart was beating out of her chest as she ran, and the relief she felt upon spotting a vase was worth the pain of petals loss. The denizens of this world were so unsteady and irrational, always pitching her at new trials. There was no time to stop and ponder, for they liked to play dirty. And she liked beating them at their own unfair games.

Garry's and her macaron date was now code for the new routine. A frown would be painted all over his face as he took her back to the gallery. That frown would become a smile whenever she returned, and the 'welcome back' he gave her was the gold star she collected. The gallery never made it easy, but she learned to stay one step ahead.

 _Worry_

"Look at you, all beaten up." His smoky coat was wrapped around her as he carried her back home. "…We should stop this, Ib."

Ib knew that Garry was concerned about her parents' words when he last returned her with inconspicuous scrapes. But she didn't want to stop, and Garry always complied with her requests.

So the gallery grew angry, bloodshot eyes cracking open the floor beneath her feet and unamused chatters seeping out from behind the walls. What sore losers.

On one occasion, the air was especially thick when they entered the building. Garry kept rubbing his neck, asking her if there was something around it. He insisted on coming with her, so together they both sank.

 _Breath_

Something was wrong. They couldn't breathe, and the anchor fish that had always wandered in the corner was looming near, its huge maw splayed with sharp teeth. The fish was aiming straight at her, the realization eliciting a gasp from her mouth in the form of bubbles.

A large hand grabbed her by the collar and yanked her back. She saw a flurry of purple came in front of her for one moment, before it was snatched away in a curtain of foam. Ib flailed in the heavy body of water, trying to orientate herself. When she finally did, she was all alone in the dark abyss.

Ib struggled to climb out of the ocean and into the hallway of the new game. Miserably wet, she coughed and heaved for precious air. As her mind became clear, her vision blurred. She crawled back to the hole on the floor and gazed into the pitch black water rippling inside, expecting a gaunt arm to break through its surface. Laughter was echoing all around.

 _Melancholy_

Burning droplets rolled down her face and into the ink below. She touched her face in a moment of wonder. This feeling, it was just like when Mary had reduced to dying embers. And the worst part was that Garry was not here to rub circles into her back.

.

 _A Place Out of Reach_

Ib couldn't remember what she was doing. She was in the Guertena gallery, which was approaching its closing time. Her parents, she knew weren't there, so the question was how and why did she come here?

She looked around, spying eerily familiar corners. She had been frequenting this place for some reason. Her chest felt heavy at the thought.

Oh, who cares. She should return home before her parents got mad.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** *puts on glasses and stands in front of a white board*

 **Personality Disorder:** a type of mental disorder involving maladaptive thought patterns that are pervasive. Persons with PD think they are perfectly normal, and it's the world that's wrong. Because diagnostic criteria for PD is long-term, and PD usually mellow out as time goes by, these disorders are not often diagnosed during childhood.

 **Schizoid Personality Disorder** is characterized by indifference and social isolation. Persons with SPD have very limited social relations, prefer to be alone, find little to no pleasure from any activities, and may appear dull and unfeeling.

Should not be confused with **Antisocial Personality Disorder,** which is characterized by impulsiveness, self-entitlement, and a lack of empathy and remorse. Commonly referred to as 'sociopaths', persons with ASPD is often very sociable and good at manipulation.

Thank you for staying till the end!

Have a nice day y'all~


	6. A Coward's Hide and Seek

**A Coward's Hide and Seek**

 _Say that a hen is constantly being chase by a rooster._

 _What do you think the hen is thinking?_

—

Garry ran his fingers over the row of books and picked out a random volume. He sucked in a deep breath and blew at the dusty surface, releasing a wave of dancing silver particles into the phony sunlight that cascaded through the empty windowsill.

There was no title – scratched out, but that didn't really matter.

He cracked the text open, eyes squinting to read in the dark room. The scrawled writings told the story about a pair of lovers whom was faced with opposition from the whole world. So they yearned for another world. A dangerous world that they believed would accept their union.

How silly. They were only running away.

As he read, Garry noted the difficult words, acting on a habit formed long ago. But then…it was a habit that was no longer needed.

He looked to his side, where once upon a time a small figure always stood, and his chest twisted in guilt. He remembered the way her wine-colored eyes had gazed up at him in patient wonderment, waiting for his answer. And when he regarded her with a smile, she'd snap her head down, hoping her short bangs would hide her emotion from him.

Not anymore.

Now there was no one stood next to him. And though the young girl had been as silent as doll, the difference marked by her absence was unmistakable. There was a void empty enough to swallow him whole.

Garry closed the book and shelved it. Just who was the author of these stories he kept finding around the gallery anyway?

He walked to the window to peer outside, scanning the messy lines of crayons that made up the 'world.' His eyes followed the solid stroke of deep pink leading from the door of this house to the horizon afar. Along the way, spiky tulips bloomed from squiggly patches of grass, taking on colors that would put a rainbow to shame. Comically polluted puffs of smoke could be seen rising from the only chimney in town, announcing the approaching end of another 'day.'

As Garry stood watching the quiet scenery, he was about to address the sinking feeling in his stomach when he spotted _her_. His smile returned. Underneath the swirls of green that denoted wide vaults of leaves, the little girl of red was wandering, no doubt with vigilant eyes, trying to spot any clue that might be of help to her search.

It didn't seem like she'd noticed him yet, that red skirt of hers swaying as she spun around, reacting to some sound she'd heard. He leant against the windowsill to contain the adrenaline that was already starting to circulate in his veins.

 _Hurry up and find me already._

Just like before, when he'd been incapacitated, lying on the cold floor. In the face of an excruciating pain, he wished for death. But it never came. Instead, he awoke with renewed strength, and watching over him were the most hauntingly beautiful pair of eyes.

Ever since that meeting, he'd followed her around like a newborn chick that blindly imprinted on the wrong mother. It wasn't mere tit for tat that he'd sworn to protect her.

So how had this happen?

Oh, she saw him.

Garry climbed out through the window just as she started down the pink road towards him. He could hear the patter of her Mary Janes before he took off, away from her.

 _Come, Ib._

The burn of fatigue was setting in too quickly, and he needed a vase. Garry had to admit he lacked exercise. To his defense, living as a poor college student meant that any attempt to burn away precious calories was a sin in itself. Hunger was one of the few things he didn't miss from the real world. When he'd first realized that he hadn't needed food for a while, he was almost glad he wouldn't have to die from starvation.

Of course, there were so many other ways to die here…

Even now the feeling of her limp form still weighed down on his arms, heavy like shackles of pure lead. As the petals of blood had scattered like autumn leaves, he'd held her close, hot tears slurring his call of her name. Garry never knew a human body could be so cold, and when that very human's hand had been so warm in his own just moments before, it was a horrifying contrast for his mind to make sense of.

He still remembered the pain that nearly ripped his sanity apart when his rose had been in the bruising clutch of the blue lady. That was what she'd gone through in his arm as he knelt, powerless to help, before she was finally granted peace.

Why couldn't she have let him save her?

He could have saved her.

Garry jolted awake to a dull stab of hurt in his arm. He was sitting against the wall next to the table where Eternal Blessing stood, and kneeling next to him was…

"Ah, Ib, you found me!" he put on a smile.

In response, her hold tightened around his elbow, and he could feel blunt fingernails digging into him through his thin coat. She wore a blank expression, but her eyes— Ah, they spoke volumes of her displeasure. He grew more nervous with each passing second that she stayed silent, simply looking at him. His dry throat was begging for a swallow, but under the pressure radiating from those angry, blood-red orbs, he knew better than to move.

So he stayed still as the figurative clock kept on ticking.

Finally, her lips parted. Garry held his breath and waited for that first word to be sounded.

"Garry," his heart skipped a beat as a chill scuttled down his back. The little girl released her harsh grip and looked down to his hand, her fingers lacing with his. "You keep disappearing."

The worry in his chest subsided, and the smile on his face became more natural. He longed to hear her voice, even if the tone was a little off.

"I was lonely, Garry. It was really scary by myself."

"I'm sorry." He dared to raise his free hand to her cheek and made a little stroke down her satin-like skin, glossing over the coldness at his fingertips. "My, this place is such a confusing mess that I keep getting lost. Thanks for always looking for me."

He was lying through his teeth, but let's be fair, they both were shameless liars.

She was impassive towards his touch— or so he'd thought before her fingers untangled from his and shot up, seizing the offending hand. It startled him, but he didn't have the chance to mull over the surprise. Her grip was strong, her nails on his knuckles, plunging into his skin and bones. His smile was slipping, but Garry tried to keep it up. For her.

The girl stared back at him with watchful orbs as though scrutinizing the sincerity of his expression. Swallowing back a whimper, he allowed his joints to relax in her grasp.

The clock was still ticking.

She leant into his hand and closed her eyes. Her breathing was slow as she pressed her lips into the sole of his sweaty palm. For a moment, she seemed so vulnerable that it was nostalgic. And he would have pulled her into an embrace if not for her crushing grip reminding him how untrue that notion was.

The rhythm of his heart quickened as her other hand circled his wrist. She took a deep breath before reopening her eyes.

"Say, Garry."

"What do I do, Garry?"

Her eyes were down, her fingers curled, slowly etching red lines down the length of his pulse. He tightened his jaw to contain a grunt.

"Um, Ib—"

"How do I get you to stay still?"

"It's dangerous to walk around. You'll get hurt."

She traced her lips along his palm.

"I just want to protect you, Garry."

She pushed his thumb between her teeth and bit down. Hard. Garry bolted up straight with a surprised gasp. "I-Ib!" He pleaded but received no mercy. The girl never relented, and as the pain sank in and numbed all other decision-making brain cells, he only wanted out.

With a desperate yank, there was an audible clack as he managed to free the digit from the sharp vice. Garry was almost hyperventilating as he studied the damage. The flesh was dented and bloody, everything from the joint to the root of his nail was completely maimed from the abrupt escape. This time he could no longer hold back a pitiful whimper. The rims of his eyes were starting to burn.

"Garry, does it hurt?" she reached for his injured hand, but he jerked it away from her, his most primal instincts were screaming for him to flee.

"Y-yes, it d-oes," his voice cracked. No more of this. He'd been a fool to have thought he could get use to this.

"I'm sorry. But Ma always says 'you don't learn unless you're punished.'" She tugged at the hem of his shirt to gain his attention. "Don't be mad at me, please Garry?" She smiled an innocent smile. It was _Ib's_ smile.

Unfair. This was foul play.

Even though his thumb was on fire, and the raging pain only wished for him to retaliate, he couldn't muster the heart to even get mad. How could he ever? Not with her. "No, honey, I'm not." He patted her head with a shaky hand, half-fearing that this one might be subjected to the same abuse. "Don't worry," he said, more to himself than her.

The hurt was growing duller, to his relief. He stole a glance at his thumb and…it was healing, the bloody flesh fixing itself with a strange rippling effect to it. Even his wrist, where there should've been swollen scratches, was now unblemished.

His shoulders sagged in relief. He'd forgotten, but how fortunate that his rose had been standing in Eternal Blessing all along. Garry breathed out a sigh and returned his gaze to Ib, who was looking up at the turquoise vase perched atop the table as though she'd just realized its presence. The girl started to climb over his lap to get to the vase.

"Hey Ib," he held her back and turned her to him. Before she could speak a word, he leant forward and placed a quick kiss on her cheek.

She visibly flushed, hand springing up to cover the place where his lips has landed. Her reaction put a little smirk on his face. No matter how twisted, she was still his Ib.

"I've learnt my mistake, Ib. So, don't be mad at me anymore? Pretty please?" he tilted his head.

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Aw, thanks." Garry pulled her into a hug, and she returned it in kind, if not more aggressive. As he rubbed her back and snuggled into the crook of her neck, he felt he just had to say "…I love you, Ib."

.

"Are you tired, Ib?"

"Here, I'll lend you my lap."

"Sleep tight. I promise I won't go anywhere."

.

So Garry was a liar.

He promised to protect her, but she died.

He promised her he'd leave with Mary, but here he was.

But the funny thing was that…she'd always believed in him. Even now she still did.

Garry took off his jacket and draped it over her petite sleeping form. The girl was cold as ice and probably didn't need tending to, but he'd like to think his gesture made a difference.

He retrieved his blue rose with a heavy heart, leaving behind a lonely, wilted stem, so small compared to his own, inside the turquoise vase. If only this had been near… Then, just maybe…

Even though it was mere wishful thinking, there was no one to stop him from dreaming.

Garry pocketed his rose and looked around for something that could tell him how long he'd been in this corridor. Granted, time itself was nonexistent in this world, but Garry had noticed a certain interval at which the gallery seemed to…'churn,' rearranging all of its festering intestines to create the maze anew.

He was a coward. A chicken some might say. Always on the run.

But at least for the time being, he wasn't running to get away.

And so, with silent steps, he left the area in hope that she would once again find him.

* * *

 _The young man stumbles upon a fork in the road, and he knows what is waiting for him at the end of one of those ink-shrouded paths. A bed of silk, a cradle of dreams and a casket of eternity. Somewhere, his beloved is lying in peaceful slumber. The moment he sees her will be the moment the illusions will shatter like glass._

 _Because he can't afford to choose wrongly, he doesn't choose at all._

 _The young man turns around and leaves._

 _He'd never disturb her rest. Not until the day he can finally bring himself to face with the truth._

 _Oh, but since time is frozen still in this world, I guess that day will never come._

 _(Excerpts from_ ？？？？？？？？？ _)_

* * *

 **Author's Rant:** I am uncomfortable with how I kept using the word 'hand.'

In my country we have a joke about how a rooster is chasing a hen, posing the question about what the hen may be thinking. The answer is "Am I running too fast?" It pokes fun at our culture where the girl is supposed to sit and wait for the guy to make the move when she prolly also wants his advances. I used it a little out of context, but I thought it still fit...  
(´owo ｀)

Guesty-san, here's fake!Ib! It was a little hard trying to figure out how her silent nature can be twisted without completely losing the original personality. Writing this became really fun halfway through. I hope you'll continue to enjoy these little stories!

AnnyTheAnon-san, thank you for reading the last chapter. I wish to point out that, it's not that Ib dislikes Mary, but rather her disorder has the tendency to deny feeling anything.

Thanks for reading everyone. Would love to hear what you think.


	7. The Liar that Didn't Lie

**The Liar that Didn't Lie**

There are no such things as puzzles in the Gallery

 **—**

 _Somebody…_

Pain wracked through his body in violent spasms, and his vision was abuzz with stars.

 _My_ _ _ _？？？___ _My precious_ _ _ _？？？___ _._

She was slipping out of his grasp, sinking into the pit of his muddled mind. He pulled at his hair and clawed at his ears, trying to block out the incessant chatters of the 'others.' His eyes twitched. His teeth gnashed. He threw himself against the body of darkness, ramming for a way out.

 _Shut up! All of you shut up! I can't hear her voice anymore._

She was just a baby when they gave her to him, a responsibility shoved onto the nearest able hands out of convenience. She should have been a nuisance. She _was_ a nuisance. That cheeky imp grew up, her long cherry blond hair done in twin tails, her tantrums obnoxious and rewarded. Matron doted on her, and the other kids couldn't stand her.

She was selfish. She was arrogant. She talked back, and no amount of coy cuddles or large dewy eyes should have made up for the times she'd thrown him under the bus to save her own hide. But they did. They fucking did, and he didn't even care how unfair a trade it was.

In the callousing cycle of orphanhood, she made him feel human. Only she. They licked each other's wounds in the most abrasive ways possible, and it was a bond he never wanted broken.

 _ _ _？？？___ _ia._ Her face was a blur, and her name… _Name…what's…your name? Hey, your name! Oh, god dammit. Answer me!_

He was forgetting.

A fledging red rose had been in her hand, and a mocking white rose in his.

The path they'd walked was twisted, infested by crooked creations.

 _I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know it would end like this._

 _Stop throwing a tantrum, hypocrites. I have to— I have to…_

The afternoon had been boiling hot, and what little fat in his scrawny body was sizzling like the pan of bland tofu matron liked to make for dinner. It was just another horrid summer day that couldn't have ended fast enough. The irony that it never did end when they decided to take refuge in some open museum.

 _She's my…my…I have to…_

He doubled down from the searing corrosion that robbed him of the shallowest breaths. The hands before him blemished with a hideous black as they continued to shriek, and mock, and wail, and laugh.

The ways of the puzzles had escaped him. He was the brawl and she the brain. Ia had become oddly quiet and meek, but it was a distant concern for him. As long as she was solving puzzles…

But that was it. They never had a chance. The moment they started solving 'puzzles,' it had already been game over.

A puzzle has a logical answer to it. And this twisted world was not a puzzle. You don't get to just solve it and win. Sure, it had rules written here and there, but so did his orphanage. And some of those rules were scribbled in by the other kids when matron wasn't looking.

 **There's an odd one out.**

The one in white was all sugar and rainbow.

The one in blue was young and carefree.

The one in green was calm and gentlemanly.

The one in red was laidback and teasing.

The one in yellow was an unconcerned clown.

They were all saying different things.

And then there was the one in brown, silent and taciturn.

 _You shameless, lying bastard._

Ia drank in the liar's charming timbre, quaffing down comforting whispers that her brother wasn't sophisticated enough to utter. And then she'd claimed her intuition told her to trust the smarmy bastard.

 _Stop acting high and mighty, you incorrigible brat. You make me laugh. What does your sheltered ass know about intuition?_

 _I'm the alley animal that uses intuition._

 _I'm your brother!_

 _Listen to me!_

 _No,_ _ _ _？？？___ _ia!_

Purple smoke had already engulfed her tiny crouching figure.

One lone red petal floated to the floor before his feet.

His heart was in a standstill, his blood cold, jamming painfully inside his arteries. There she'd lain on the cold tiles, her rose a wilted stalk beside her.

He roared his throat raw to drown out the voices. _Liar liar liar! You promised to let me protect you!_ He hammered his fists against the yellow window, scratching for a way out.

 _I promised…to protect you._

The blotches in his vision was spreading until he could no longer discern himself from the ink surrounding him. Someone was shouting. He was shouting.

But he didn't understand.

What was he angry about?

Palette knife in hand, he'd charged for the one in brown. All profanities he'd care to know spilled from his mouth in a frenzied barrage as he maimed the son of a bitch, the laughter and mockeries never ceasing even as the canvas tore and ripped. And when the timber tone of the one in brown went quiet and all the giggles died down, his wrath was far from satisfied.

Why had he been so angry?

He'd spun around to charge at another portrait when he realized they were all…staring.

Wide, unblinking eyes appeared on the previously empty faces, and maniacal grins tore across their jaws.

 **Please do not touch the displays. If by any chance you damage any exhibit, you will b comp sat n**

.

.

.

" _I'm glad you're with us, neighbor."_

 _._

 _._

" _You're welcomed to stay, bro!"_

" _We're like a family here~"_

 _._

" _Family~ Family~ Family~"_

 _._

" _Boy, do remember our rule."_

 _._

" _ **Here, in the**_ **Liar's Room, we do not lie** _ **."**_

It wasn't like Brown particularly cared, but he supposed he'd already realized the twisted nature of his 'family' since long ago. He didn't mind staying with the liars though, because he fit right in. Without knowing why, Brown knew he was just like them.

So why…

He could've sworn paintings didn't 'bleed,' but what did he know? He'd been a fool through and through. _Annoying_. Those hypocrites were all yelling at him as they tore his existence apart.

Brown heard the slam of a door, and the little girl with eyes as deep as the crimson bloom in her hand came before his cracked and smeared window. He could've sworn he knew this shade of red. He could've sworn that, all along, he'd wanted to leave this room, leave this world. And he could've sworn he once had a heart that would hurt every time he saw…her…

'… _Her?'_

… _Who?_

The moment he'd set his eyes on this little girl, all of his doubts was gone. He did know this shade of red. He did want to leave. And he did have a heart. And his heart was telling him to talk to this girl some more. Maybe then he would have his answer.

But everything was growing dark, and it was hard to see her anymore.

In any case, he was satisfied. Finally, he'd managed to protect her.

The holder of the red rose.

His most precious ___？？？.___

* * *

 **Author's Rant:** Something that doesn't involve Garry for once. This story is based on the assumption that Garry and Ib were just doing random stuff that happened to resemble puzzles in the gallery, and were very lucky when they managed to get out (e.g. how the heck would Garry know when Juggling was born?)

AnnyTheAnon: Oh no! I love that you were taking the time to consider characters' perspective. The way I intended it, Ib "mellowed out" as she interacted with Garry, as opposed to Mary whom she spent less time with. But well, I did leave it ambiguous so I guess I should own up to the fact that I failed to convey what I thought I was conveying (laughs).

Guesty: Just know I am thoroughly glad that you read and enjoy my little spin of the Ib universe.


	8. Make-belief

**Make-belief**

It's not lying if he believes it.

—

The heat that had built up underneath his thick layer of clothing was a stark contrast with his icy hands and face. Garry tried to catch his breath as he rang the doorbell to the Lowell's residence, cold winter air scalding the inside of his nostrils and hurting his throat with each breath drawn. His heart was booming against his eardrums, and the sweat beading at his forehead was making the chilly wind all the more unbearable. A particularly strong gust got him bundling himself up in his trench coat and pulling at his scarf.

He was counting the seconds, anxious to be let in, but not because of the unfavorable weather.

There was a muffled rustling of the knob from the other side, before the door opened inward and revealed Ib's mother, Alysha, at the threshold, beckoning him inside.

"Good afternoon, Garry. Thank you for coming on such short notice," the woman said as he shuffled past her, still gasping for air.

"No problem at all," he muttered between heaves, bending down to dislodge his socked feet from his worn sneakers. "How's Ib?" After depositing his shoes to the rack, he followed Alysha into the house and towards the stairs.

"It's just the common cold, really. Her fever is making her delirious, and she keeps asking for you…among other things." A brief look of worry flashed across Alysha's features, but the woman quickly tucked it away and led him up the curved stairwell. "Her father's with her right now."

"My my, I see." He didn't put much thought into her demeanor as he shed his coat and muffler, folding them over his arm after shaking off some paltry flakes of snow. Over the years, they had come to a tacit agreement that certain _things_ should be left alone, as neither he nor Ib was keen on explaining their first meeting. Whenever Ib broke down into hysteria, he was the solution, and that was all that mattered to the parents. "I'm sorry I let her stay out so late last night," he added at the top of the stairs.

"No no, I should apologize. Knowing her, she probably troubled you yesterday." The mother gave him a helpless chuckle.

But she was a reckless teenager, he thought, and he was supposed to be the adult. He was supposed to know better. Her fever had gotten to this point was because of him. They'd been out in the snow, and while the warmth of her skin when they held hands should have alarmed him, should have made him send her straight home, Garry had given in to her large, pleading eyes instead. Ib was stubborn, and too aware of the pulls she had over him, and he never did know how to say no to her.

He was a terrible adult in that aspect. Every time, she would win before the conversation even started, and afterwards, seeing the small smile she had on when she thought he wasn't watching, or a certain smugness to the sway of her gait, yet feeling no grudge over the fact, he could only admit to himself he was, in all truth, whipped.

As they neared the half-open door at the end of the corridor, sounds of sobbing floated to his ears, and he could already hear his heart break. Fever dream or otherwise, she was suffering; he of all people knew how tenacious a grip the gallery had on a person. The nightmares still left him in cold sweats, and it gave him no relief knowing that, underneath all the unflappable façade and deadpan sarcasm, she was so much more fragile, so much more vulnerable than he was.

Ib was lying in her bed, hair all knotted and disheveled, perhaps from tossing and turning. Nathan was by her side, wiping the sweat that matted brown bangs to her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes half-lidded in some agonizing haze. With a quick greeting, he took her father's place on the bed and gathered her head onto his lap. She struggled at first, but then, as though somehow sensing it was he, settled against him readily.

"Shh, I'm here, sweetie. You're gonna be fine," he crooned, feeling her face, her temperature almost scalding against his cold knuckles.

"Garry…" she whimpered, small hands curling into his shirt. And she repeated his name a few more times. Each time, he reassured her he was here to stay. She hadn't been like this in a very long while; so needy, so dependent. Grew out of it, she'd claimed. He was proud of his little girl, but at the same time felt his purpose around her waning.

Was it twisted that he felt remotely happy about this development?

Her parents soon left them alone after seeing that their daughter had calmed down.

Garry continued to rub her back, watching as the frown slowly leave her features, and felt the labored rise and fall of her shoulders evening out into sleep. A smile crept onto his lips. With great care not to stir her, he reached for one of the spare pillows and cushioned it behind his back so that the bedpost wasn't digging into his bones. When he was more comfortable, he resumed the circles on her back.

There was only the sound of her breathing now.

 _"Remind me again, Garry, how old are you now?"_ Her father had asked him a few weeks ago.

 _"Twenty-seven, sir."_

 _"Indeed? Time flies, doesn't it?"_ The older man had had a faraway look accompanying his smile as he set down his teacup _._

Age had always been a sensitive subject between them, at least for him. The parents might have accepted him into their life without many questions asked, not the important one anyways, but he knew they continued to gauge him even now. A veiled question here, a discreet nudge there. They were worried about her affections for him, and wary of his for her. But he only saw her as a friend, a little sister that he just had to spoil and could not leave well enough alone. So every time the parents seemed to hint at it, he would reassure them just as subtly about the nature of his feelings.

Platonic, and nothing more.

He felt Ib stir against him and looked down, brushing some stray strands away from her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, precious orbs of red peered up at him with sleep still in their depths.

"Garry, I'm sorry I hit you so hard…" Garry blinked at her mumbling as the girl snuggled closer to him, hand tugging tighter at his shirt. "I'm sorry, okay? You weren't listening. And I felt you were slipping…away…from…the rose. I was scared. I didn't want you to leave. You just weren't listening, and the rose…took the rabbit…"

He held back his amusement. She was still out of it, and it was adorable how she wasn't even coherent. Garry ran his fingers through her hair, his other hand placed over the death grip she had on him.

"Rest, Ib. There is nothing you can do that'll drive me away." As she drifted back to oblivion, he couldn't contain the happiness rising in his chest, but wholeheartedly wanted it to stop. He kissed her cheek, felt the heat radiating from her, could almost taste the cough medicine in her sigh. He felt his heart picking up that unwelcomed pace, felt his palms dampen, felt a knot forming in his throat, felt something primal coiling in his stomach.

Garry closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. He schooled his heart to hush, dried his palms and swallowed the knot away.

To the snoozing girl, he whispered so that only she may hear. "I promise you, Ib, I'll always be by your side."

And if being a brother to her meant that he could stay by her side, then, please, let him say that these feelings weren't love.


End file.
